Somewhere along the way, my soul must have known what it meant to worship. My name tells me that I am consecrated to God. Consecrated: made and declared sacred, set apart with the dedication of service. Consecrated: to change the elements of bread and wine into the Eucharist. I never knew my name could be so full, and I think to myself that it is nearly ridiculous. A full name for an empty person, a person with holes and scars and bags under the eyes and white knuckles. To say that my life as I know it is unfit for such a definition would be an understatement.
I once told a friend that the times in my life that I have wanted to die have been brought about by the exhaustion from the cycle of brokenness. He told me that perseverance is the willingness to cooperate and remain under pressure. How does a vessel full of cracks truly withstand pressure? How do I truly open my hands to this God who leads me to walk through the trials of the fire, not only receiving that which he gives, but also releasing all of the best laid plans that I cling desperately to? How do I look even death in the face, and plead “not my will, but Yours?” My life has been shaped by an instability which has fertilized and germinated a monstrous anxiety. The enemy is so much greater than me.
No – greater is he that is in me, that drives me, that loves me, the one I am consecrated to. That is the promise. I believe, but help my unbelief. Has there ever been a more honest prayer? There are parts of myself that I don’t really want to hand over, but they only drown with me when I take my eyes away from the one who came to redefine this life. After all this time, I still do not understand what it means to truly be, and let that be enough. I don’t trust this God who tells me that I don’t have to do anything but exist in order to merit his truest, unfathomable affection. Surely, I must have to live up to some obscene level of expectation. And every other graceless standard leaves me entirely alone and full of self loathing.
I’ve written a lot of freedom and the cessation of striving, but that never meant I knew how to make that happen. Simply knowing about someone was never enough to make them personal. Can I really be sustained on what I do not know? What love the Father must have, to allow me to trade my brokenness for daily bread, to lay myself aside and see each moment for what it truly is – an opportunity to react fully and well to the truth of who he is every day. He is still the God who makes a way where there is none. He is not asleep at the wheel. The refuge of his presence is never hidden from me.
Yes, I believe, but help me in my unbelief. Help me to untangle myself from the lies and pick up the pieces of my brokenness. Grace, help me last another day, and give me just enough strength to pick up the tools to lay the foundation.
So be it.